


reasons wretched and divine

by captaincuppy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Canon Compliant, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pirates, They're Very Dramatic But Also Hilarious Hopefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincuppy/pseuds/captaincuppy
Summary: There’s the crisp thunder of the cannonball, followed by a hollow splash. The air is filled with the putrid smell of gunpowder and sweat, which the crew of the Expulsion breathes in like it’s the scent of their lover’s skin. Screams rise from both ships; some fear for their blood, some are thirsty for it, interweaving in some kind of eerie harmony.This is home.And the biggest fucking illusion of freedom.





	1. Chapter 1

**1692**

**North Atlantic Ocean**

 

There’s the crisp thunder of the cannonball, followed by a hollow splash. The air is filled with the putrid smell of gunpowder and sweat, which the crew of the _Expulsion_ breathes in like it’s the scent of their lover’s skin. Screams rise from both ships; some fear for their blood, some are thirsty for it, interweaving in some kind of eerie harmony.

This is home.

And the biggest fucking illusion of freedom.

Crowley stretches his legs over the handrail of the cuddy, then pulls his right knee back up to lean on it. He tilts his head to see the vibrant colors of the sunlit billows and the gaudy cloth above his dark lens. He’s yelling his orders into the thick mass of fog and smoke. Close to him, the helmsman laughs sharply as she turns the steering wheel with both hands. Crowley stares at it as it’s spinning; their wheel of fortune.

The ship tilts to the left and slides right next to the monstrous galleon that swallows all light as she towers above the _Expulsion_. She casts a shadow over Crowley and his crew; it feels like a breath of cold air.

Crowley stares up at it and wrinkles his nose to keep his glasses in place. The _Queen Anne’s Grace_ is a British passenger ship that harbors jewels and gold around the people’s necks and in their pockets. He hopes their shine will be enough to quiet the impatient crew that gets drunk on some quick flashiness. Sometimes it occurs to him that he’s the only one who actually wants to make a fortune off selling stolen goods and not just drown in cheap alcohol and bought love, making him realising he’s not actually working with devils.

Crowley sniffs and throws himself over the handrail. He lands with a slight knock and the elegance of a feline. No one pays attention to his trick; it’s impossible to distract a crew of pirates so close to their prey. He saunters through the smoke and slides his palm on the main mast as he comes round it with a dance step. The wind tears into his long coat fluttering behind him and peppers his face with salty drops like kisses.

Shadows rush over his skin and he looks up once more: dark figures leap through the web of ropes with their sabers in their mouths, ready to swing over to the deck of the galleon. Others balance on the gaff and the bowsprit, clinging to the figurehead and raising their pistols.

Crowley cases the joint quickly. His ship is almost untouched; only the fore topsail flutters with a hole inside it, the tip of the topsail a little bent. The galleon wanted to escape instead of fighting back, except she’s slouch and way heavier than the pirate ship. Most passenger ships they encounter would rather give themselves up right away, hoping their obedience will save their lives. The fact that the galleon gave them a chance to hunt them down… that will make it much harder to quench the crew’s bloodthirst.

Planks drop with a handful of loud knock and Crowley is getting ready for his big entrance. His people are already on the galleon’s deck, surrounding the shivering herd of passengers. Most of them dropped to their knees, their lips trembling and nails scratching the deck. Their Captain is standing in the forefront, body wrapped in ropes and fear.

Crowley’s time has come.

He steps up the widest plank and slowly marches ahead. Head high, grin wide, heels knocking, earrings jingling. He tries to temper his grin into a victorious smile and the smoke rises, revealing him in all his glory.

“Such a lovely day for a nice little slaughter, isn’t it?” he yells and cracks up at the end. “Is it everybody’s first time being attacked and robbed? Eh, you don’t need to answer. I mean you do, but only to the following: where do you keep all of it? You know, weapons, food, jewelry, coins, everyth--ing.” Crowley bites his words back.

As more people drop on their knees, a familiar figure emerges from the crowd. Crowley can’t see his face, but the style of clothing is more than enough to notice him - especially the tiny golden wings embroidered on his white collar.

Crowley mutters incoherently to himself, and the figure glances up at him. It’s short and provocative.

There’s a slight outrage in his crew and several screams of the passengers as Crowley breaks through the circle and sways into the herd. The figure raises his chin even more as Crowley approaches but he still averts his gaze until the very last second.

 _Queen Anne’s Grace, for fuck’s sake_ . How could he’ve been so fucking _stupid-_

Crowley grins at him miserably.

“Hello there. Enjoying the journey?”

He doesn’t get an audible answer, but he can read everything from his face; the softly pressed lips, the raised eyebrow and the tiny head tilt speaks louder than any yelled words. Crowley’s knees buckle a little as he makes a face back that doesn’t change shit. He knows he’s already lost.

“Whatever.” Crowley straightens and turns on his heels. He raises his voice so everyone can hear him clearly now. “What about a deal, eh?” He sniffs. “I tell you what. If this pleasantly quiet gentleman comes with us willingly, and you don’t try to fuck us over with hidden valuables, I might… Ugh.” Crowley looks like he’s about to throw up. “Imightspareallyourlives.”

Everyone on deck gets quiet for a heartbeat, and then - hell breaks loose. Crowley’s crew screams bloody murder. The passengers start crying and wailing again, but this time, out of relief. Crowley growls very slowly and kneads his temple. He grabs the man’s elbow with his free hand and gently pushes him out of the crowd so they won’t be overheard. When they reach the rail, Crowley forgets his fingers there for a moment longer and squeezes before releasing.

“Oh _thank you_ , Aziraphale” he says then, curling his upper lip into a sneer.

Aziraphale glances at him, confused.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t--- yes, well, not actually, but-”

“Nonetheless, I believe you were in the middle of taking care of something?”

“Don’t you dare-”

Crowley doesn’t see what Aziraphale has just done, he can only hear a soft snap and so the ruckus is fading away like someone cut it. Heads turn and mouths shut; people start to pay attention to Crowley again, who doesn’t welcome the sudden spotlight with much joy.

Now he feels some regret for lashing out when he’s well aware that his reputation around the seas works perfectly with deceptive and rash decisions. He’s spared lives before, numerous times; but never all of them. People dread him because he’s capricious and erratic like a natural catastrophe; he seems to fear nothing and no one, and it’s only a matter of the frame of his mind if he lets people join his crew or die by other’s hands. Some say he’s genius, most of them say he’s gone mad at sea.

That doesn’t help him now, though. Or anyone for that matter.

He might just speak what is actually on his mind.

“Listen up,” he yells like the growing silence is the merit of his presence. “Anyone who wants to object to my decisions might just step ahead right now and see what happens.” Crowley slides his fingers down his hips, above his sword belt. No one makes a move. Crowley licks his lips. “That’s what I thought. Well then. The only thing left is to ask the dear Mr…?”

Aziraphale stares at him sheepishly before blurting:

“ _Oh,_ it’s ‘Fell’ now.”

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment.

“Mr Fell, are you are ready to save these people’s lives and sacrifice yourself?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously. Great. It’s decided then.” Crowley makes a vague gesture towards the passengers. “Take their stuff. Do your jobs. The usual.”

“Can we cut their ears off at least?” the shipwright yells from the other side of the deck. The others grumble in support. “Or some fingers?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you want. No killing, though!” Crowley puckers his lips as he hurries through the deck and waves insistent little circles in the air for Aziraphale. “Come on, angel.”

Crowley’s crew coos and bursts out laughing. Some take their fingers in their mouths and whistle sharply as Aziraphale passes them, ignoring every face and comment and suggestive gesture.

He doesn’t even turn around from the plank when he hears a piercing cry, followed by a hollow thud. The aftertaste of the spicy smoke coats his tongue.  
  


⚓

 

“So. This is new.”

Crowley shrugs the heavy black coat off his shoulders and throws it on the throne he has in his cabin for some reason. The sleeve of the coat brushes two rolls of maps and a copper compass from the tabletop. Crowley tosses his hat onto the pile as well before he turns to Aziraphale and leans on the edge of the desk.

“Pardon?”

“You. Coming after me.” Crowley looks like he already regrets talking. He looks away from the bed Aziraphale is sitting on, legs crossed. “What’s up?”

Aziraphale adjusts the pillow next to him, taking his time. He slides his finger along the golden stitch-work.

“What makes you think something has happened?”

“Oh, right. Sure, we just randomly crossed paths. Just two immortal entities from opposite sides wandering aimlessly at sea - _as they do_.”

“This is uncalled for,” Aziraphale says, chest puffed up.

Crowley mumbles something under his breath. His look drifts further away in the room, reaching a robust mahogany cupboard.

“Want something to drink?” He offers carefree, swaying across the room. He grabs two dusty bottles, holding them both up. “I have rum… and slightly older rum. No, it’s brandy. I have brandy? Since when?”

“Brandy is fine,” Aziraphale says. He looks around. “Where do you keep the glasses?”

“In Westminster.”

Aziraphale pouts and snaps his fingers. There’s a quiet clink. By the time Crowley is back at the desk with the cork plug between his teeth, Aziraphale is there, holding up two crystal clean glasses to pour the brandy into. Crowley fills them both almost to the rim, and quickly takes one.

“Cheers,” he says, clinking the glasses together.

“Cheers,” Aziraphale repeats softly, staring into Crowley’s eyes before taking a little sip. Crowley almost chokes on it, trying to mask it as a discreet cough.

The ship lays across the roaring waves, her wooden skin creaks and sighs. The wind rushes through the cabin’s windows, clattering the glass. Aziraphale can hear footsteps fading around them as the crew gets ready to descend under the deck for the night, putting out the lights on board. Not a single soul left outside in the starless night save two guards on either side of the ship.

They both stumble back to the bed carefully, the floor rumbling under their feet. Crowley takes the bottle with him. As they settle down on different sides, feet tapping on the wood, awkwardly, Aziraphale clears his throat.

He feels Crowley’s eyes all over him.

“You cut your beard,” Aziraphale says, still avoiding eye contact. Crowley touches his chin, scratching the barely visible stubble.

“Difficult to maintain at sea.” A pause. “You like it?”

“I really do. You look the same as when we met.”

“Really.”

“I was sent here,” Aziraphale says out of the blue, only now trying to reciprocate the look but seeing only a shadow. His voice grows high. “Take those spectacles off, please. I don’t like talking to you like this.”

Crowley does. His irises seem to burn in the cabin’s dim lights, his pupil a stroke of the pen. With the glasses gone, his whole presence changes; his moves become smoother and more natural, in an inexplicable, inhumane way.

“So it’s just a ride, then?”

“Is that what you want it to be?”

Crowley knits his brows.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Aziraphale takes a deep breath until he can feel his lungs stinging in his chest. His eyes bore into Crowley’s, scouring deeper and deeper into his soul. It’s burning under Crowley’s skin, wreathing around his heart, hitching his breath. When he opens his mouth to talk, his expression changes back to jolly and calm. “Is it  amenable, then? Me accompanying you.”

“...Sure.”

Aziraphale beams at him and clinks their glasses together again. Crowley’s throat runs dry, mouth and lips too. He gulps from the brandy and finishes his glass, throwing his head back.

“So how do we keep you here?” he asks hoarsely. “I assume you don’t want to suddenly become a pirate.”

“Oh heavens no.”

“Well we don’t take hostages, so.”

Aziraphale nods slowly and lets his gaze wander like the solution might be somewhere in the cabin. The flash of inspiration hits him while drinking, so he waves excitedly at Crowley to make him wait for it.

“Oh, I know.” He smacks his lips proudly. “I could be a physician.”

“Eh, we have a surgeon.”

“Better than an angel able to perform miracles?”

Crowley raises his eyebrows and makes a low humming sound. He refills his glass with more brandy then rests his head on the carved bed frame.

“That could work,” he says lazily. He flashes his teeth at Aziraphale. “‘Doctor Fell’. It suits you.”

Aziraphale chuckles.

Uncanny serenity settles in the atmosphere as they both fall silent. Something familiar nestles into Crowley’s chest, something he hasn’t felt in a long time. They’ve met over the centuries, sure, but they’ve always been short and straightforward. They had business, they took care of it, they parted again - just like the waves lapping on the ship’s sides, they crash and draw back immediately. He just starts to realise that with Aziraphale coming here, they have something they never did. Time. Together.

Crowley’s heart speeds up alarmingly. He doesn’t know yet where Aziraphale wants to go- and he’s too afraid to ask- but it will take them days to reach the closest shore he was planning to head to. Whole days and nights to spend with Aziraphale in such a small, closed space, being able to talk about anything and everything.

It seems almost unbearable.

Time crawls slowly. Now the wind sprinkles tiny raindrops on the round windows, knocking smoothly and steadily on the glass. The rhythm tolls in Crowley’s head. His shoulders drop and he only realises how tense he was when his muscles relax and he stretches his legs out.

“Fancy some sleep?” he asks Aziraphale. His voice is raspy and sounds unfamiliar for being quiet for so long.

Aziraphale jumps a little, also looking like he was rudely expelled from deep thoughts. He blinks at Crowley, embarrassed.

“Perhaps.”

“I mean… Don’t know if you do that. I like it, personally. It’s quite nice. You can have the bed if you’d like.”

“Oh no, I can’t take your bed.”

“I don’t mind.”

Something strange runs across Aziraphale’s face, like the shadow of a swinging lamp above their heads. It disappears as suddenly as it appeared, and he’s already shaking his head.

“You should sleep tonight. I don’t feel like it, myself. I can read.” Aziraphale gestures towards Crowley’s bookshelf. “My marine knowledge is a little rusty, it’ll be useful to catch up on that.”

“Suit yourself.”

Aziraphale sends him a soft smile and takes their empty glasses away. Crowley watches him put everything back to its place, moving around in the cabin like he belonged there.

Crowley wishes he did.

He takes his black boots off and shoves them under the bed. The belt comes down too, the clattering makes Aziraphale turn towards him. Crowley pretends he didn’t notice how he froze in place, still looking at him undressing, and his fingers start shaking around the buttons of the leather jerkin. He goes slow because his strength left him, because his hand doesn’t obey him, because the air is humid and thick. He shrugs the jerkin off awkwardly, long arms floundering.

He wants Aziraphale to keep looking. He wants him to never take his eyes off him, to follow him wherever he goes just like Crowley’s eyes are drawn to him by a cosmic force.

Crowley peeks behind him. Aziraphale is already browsing for a read, turning his back towards him.

Crowley lets out a shaky breath. He makes a vague gesture that means nothing and lets his hand fall down, slapping himself.

“Goodnight,” he says. It sounds like a question.

Aziraphale takes a book off the shelf and blows dust off the cover.

“Mmhm. Goodnight,” he says, sitting on Crowley’s throne and turning the pages. He doesn’t look at him again.

 _Alright_.

  
⚓

 

The next morning slides into the cabin through the windows, the rising sun climbing up on the bed and lapping at Crowley’s naked ankles. He keeps his foot lolling out above the floor, stretching it in little circles and buries his face into the pillow. He’s growling loudly to himself.

There’s soft rustling and rattling.

He claws into the pillow.

Someone’s in the cabin with him.

Crowley jumps up from bed, red curls falling to his face. He grabs his sword from under the pillow and shoves it forward, muscles tensing in his arms.

The figure by Crowley’s throne raises his hands; obedient in his moves but unperturbed in his face.

Crowley drops his hands, and shoulders too. His chest is still heaving, sweat dripping down his neck.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley throws his sword onto the bed and strokes his hair behind his ear. “Right. Right.”

“Did you sleep well?” Aziraphale asks softly.

“Mm.”

Crowley scratches the back of his head and clears his throat awkwardly. He fishes his boots from under the bed, putting them on.

“Read something interesting?”

“Not quite,” Aziraphale confesses and interlaces his fingers in front of him. After a heartbeat of a pause, he says: “My mission kept me up all night, I’m afraid.” A quiet chuckle. “Couldn’t concentrate on anything, really.”

Hearing the lurking despair in his voice, Crowley raises his head and looks at him, agape. Aziraphale is all tense; he can clearly see distress in the lines of his shoulders and mouth. Crowley’s stomach tightens into a knot as he leans his elbow on his knee.

“Wanna tell me what it is?”

“Ah. I shouldn’t.”

“You can. If you want.”

Aziraphale glances at him for a split second. Then, he walks closer with quick little steps, leaning towards him like he’s afraid someone might hear them.

“Have your people said anything to you about Port Royale?”

“No. Nothing. Why?”

“That’s peculiar. I thought there would be… an opposing force. I thought maybe we were supposed to… burn each other out. That just seems like something She would do. Not always, of course. This is nothing novel. Without anything and anyone to fight against it.” Aziraphale gets more worked up as he speaks, visibly spiraling.

“What are you talking about?”

“Doesn’t matter. After all, if you know nothing about it, then… you’re not supposed to. And I cannot tell you.”

Suspicion pours over Crowley as he listens to Aziraphale talk now. He pushes his palm into the bed to help himself stand up, their heights lining up. He raises his chin too, trying to tower over Aziraphale.

“You’re toying with me.”

Aziraphale looks wounded and resentful, and his voice fits for it.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t get to be offended. You’re fucking playing with me, aren’t you?”

“I can assure you I most certainly am not-”

Crowley holds his hand up, thumb and index finger touching at the tips.

“Save it. You don’t just ‘need a ride’. You didn’t just come after me because...” He bites his tongue. He shakes his head, trying to shove his whirling thoughts to the back of his mind. “You’re leading me on. So what is my role in the mighty _ineffable_ plan this time?”

Aziraphale is ready with the answer. His anxious mask breaks, but the shreds of genuine imploring is still there.

“You owe me one from last time. Scotland, remember?”

“You wouldn’t need to go on with your mysterious ways if it was just a little blessing. I’m not a fucking idiot, Aziraphale.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” Aziraphale presses his lips together, his eyebrows furrow like he is about to break - but his voice is still tainted with more anger than anguish.

“Oh, stop it,” Crowley grunts between his teeth. “This-” he gestures to Aziraphale’s face- “is not working on me anymore. I’m done.”

“Crowley-”

Crowley makes a wide, rejective gesture. He grabs his sword belt and buckles it up around his waist. He’s rushing through the cabin like a tornado, throwing his clothes and hat on hastily, not caring that everything looks crooked and out of place on him.

As he reaches the door, Aziraphale’s desperate voice punches him in the chest one last time.

“You can’t just leave me here, Crowley!”

“Watch me.”

And with that, Crowley storms out of the door and slams it after him. Aziraphale can hear him fumbling for a while, keys clatter and jangle, but he seems to change his mind. Instead of locking him in, he bangs on the door and shouts:

“You were the one suggesting we should ‘see other people’! I’m off to do that now, and I’m not going to let you take that away from me!”

Crowley’s clacking steps fade away quickly.

Aziraphale takes a deep, shaky breath, and slides his palm over his heart. It’s pounding fast, he can hear its rhythm in his ringing ears.

The waves are swaying the ship up and down, up and down, taking Aziraphale with her. He feels like his soul stuck in the middle, falling out of his body as the ocean is playing with him tenaciously.

 _Alright_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very quickly before you start reading: this chapter contains strong language and slurs about aziraphale's assumed relationship with crowley.

Aziraphale stares out of the window and slides his palm on the wall to keep his balance. He had decided to stay in the cabin until Crowley comes back, which could be ten minutes or three hours. He doesn’t feel comfortable going after him - he knows he’d have to apologise.

His heart’s still pounding, his mouth feels dry, a metallic taste on the back of his tongue. His nails are scratching on the wood absentmindedly.

Guilt is dripping bile in his stomach. This is not the first time he’s been given an order he had questions about, or deep down, didn’t agree with, but as long as he had the chance to keep his distance and keep his hands clean, it was easier to bury the crippling doubt.

He’s made a mistake with allowing himself to come to the Arrangement with Crowley and going with their ways, so careless and shameless. Aziraphale can only assume that his side would be more fastidious and thorough with checking his paperwork, and after some suspicious questions from Gabriel about his time at Scotland, he was given different, more serious, more significant tasks. He kept feeling like his loyalty was being tested, but he didn’t dare to ask about it; he wasn’t given enough clues to be sure about his assumption.

But with this assignment, he has no doubt about it.

And he tried to get Crowley involved in something he could be killed over. Gabriel was probably more worried about Aziraphale siding with humankind rather than already getting wind of his relationship with Crowley, but he can’t take any risks.

He wishes he could control his words around Crowley.

Aziraphale’s startled by approaching footsteps. The familiar clacking of the heels fade away right behind him, and there’s silence.

Aziraphale raises his chin and turns to face Crowley.

“We should introduce you to the crew,” Crowley says, voice raspy. “They seem to be in a good mood after yesterday’s catch. We should use that.”

Aziraphale nods. “I’m ready.”

Crowley doesn’t move. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes again. When he finally speaks, his tone is still unusual.

“Listen, I-”

“No, no. Crowley, I won’t let you say it. If one of us needs to apologise, it should be me.”

“But I won’t let you say that either.” Crowley grins. It’s somewhat softer than usual, but it disappears suddenly.  “Was I right, then?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Azirapahle casts his eyes down and draws a vague gesture with his shoulder.

Crowley steps next to him, his fallen curls grazing the window. Aziraphale stares at them, following their golden halo that the sun crowned them with.

“Is it really that bad?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. He’s getting frustrated with Crowley’s questions; it’s getting harder and harder to keep his secret.

“This is my mission. Mine only.”

“Is it bad?”

“Just stop asking!” he snaps, voice breaking. “It has nothing to do with you-” Well, that’s a lie.

“You know, we can still figure something out-”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and lets out a grumbling sigh. He looks up again, trying to give edge to his words with his steady stare.

“A ride is more than enough,” he tells Crowley, putting more emphasis on words than he should. “I’m not going to talk about this again.” He turns sideways, then back again. “I mean it.”

Crowley looks defeated. Aziraphale is suddenly struck with the realisation that whatever they decide to do, however this mission ends, he’s destined to betray someone.

And he has no choice in that.

Crowley swallows and bends his back then, raising his arm to the side.

“After you, then.”

  
⚓

 

The introduction is short and informative. Crowley clings to the handrail of the quarterdeck, Aziraphale standing next to him. The crew is gathered around under them or hanging from the ropes, sitting on the yards. Wherever Aziraphale looks, he sees dirty faces and dirty looks, all focusing on him.

Aziraphale turns his face to the sun instead and slides his right hand next to Crowley’s. His thoughts draw him further away from the situation, the crackling of the sails and the crew’s shouted objections. From time to time, Crowley raises his voice and his hand too, offering some kind of compromise.

He’s negotiating with them quite nicely, Aziraphale thinks when he catches a couple of ribbons of the conversation. Crowley defended Aziraphale’s medical knowledge which was questioned by many of his people, and his dainty, rich clothes which might fox the merchant ships - who would suspect they were pirates if they had Aziraphale carelessly walking on board like an English nobleman?

The only thing that he doesn’t seem to persuade them about is Aziraphale rejecting their laws and contract.

Crowley’s crew is getting inpatient, anger starts rising between them. More and more people demand words for themselves, shouting out everything that’s on their minds. Voices high and low melding together, shaking the ship to the core like an earthquake.

Aziraphale, frustrated by the loud noise, snaps his fingers. The crew’s mouths keep moving, their throats tensing, but Crowley and he don’t hear anything from their riot.

Crowley bites his lower lip and glances over at him.

“So. This is going well.”

“How can you deal with this every day?” Aziraphale asks, pursing up. “They’re so… loud.”

“Eh, you get used to it. They’re not that bad, if you get to know them.”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale hurries to add, “I won’t sign your contract, though. That’s non-negotiable. You cannot ask me to swear an oath ‘in the holy presence of…’” Aziraphale makes a little surprised sound, mouth hanging open. He stares at Crowley, his voice is judgemental and his tone jumping up and down. “How could _you_ take that oath anyway?”

Crowley’s frozen for a moment, then starts sputtering nonsense that doesn’t sound like any actual words.

“ _Crowley!_ ”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Crowley hisses then, his face long and frantic. He leans closer and whispers in one breath: “I’m not _technically_ a pirate, okay?”

They are staring at each other for a heartbeat, then Aziraphale’s whole upper body flinches like he was swallowing a hiccup. Crowley points at the corners of his lips twitching.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

“Dare what?” Aziraphale asks, voice breaking.

Crowley snarls desperately and breaks Aziraphale’s spell with a snap. Aziraphale’s ears start ringing immediately and he makes a joyless grimace, fighting with the instinct to cover his ears.

“You deserved it,” Crowley tells him before taking a deep breath to scream: “Silence!”

People obey him. Calmness waves through the deck, heads turn back to Crowley; pirates who jumped up before, fueled by disagreement, are sitting down again. Clothes are rustling, the crew hushing itself to complete stillness.

“Now listen to me very carefully. Doctor Fell is not going to be one of us, because he’s not a dirty twat like you. That doesn’t mean he won’t fall under my complete protection; he is my guest here, my passenger, and I expect all of you to not fuck with him or you’ll have to fuck with me. And what happens to those who dare to fuck with me? Huh?”

No one speaks.

Crowley screams lustily, his voice rumbles like thunder as he leans deep over the rail, his left foot dangling up, “You’ll be fucking keelhauled, that’s what!”

Aziraphale straightens unconsciously, puffing his chest. Crowley shakes the curls out of his face and stands with both feet on the quarterdeck again.

“Swords out,” he caws as he draws his own out.

Dozens of blades reach for the sky, glistening in the sharp sunlight and slashing in unison. Crowley turns to Aziraphale, the tip of his sword pointing above his head. He raises his free hand and wiggles his fingers impatiently at the crew until a rigger rushes up the stairs and lends Aziraphale a sword too.

Aziraphale takes it shakely and shoots her a small, short smile. She makes a confused face and runs back down to the main deck.

Crowley urges Aziraphale to tilt the sword towards him, so their blades can softly clink together.

When they do, the crew roars as one, swords raised higher and higher until their arms tense.

Aziraphale lets himself loosen under Crowley’s gaze as he stares into his eyes above his black spectacles. It’s just for a moment, a moment only for the two of them, and Aziraphale decides to not feel guilty about it anymore.

Crowley’s expression is soft, his smirk honest.

“Sorry I couldn’t get you a flaming one,” he says.

Aziraphale’s throat dries.

  
⚓

 

The rest of the day is wrapped in respective serenity. Aziraphale meets the ship’s surgeon, Belling, a small bony old man with a crooked nose and crooked fingers that are shaking constantly. He looks like the ocean wind could swoop him off and take him in any minute.

Aziraphale thinks about all the vile surgeries this man had to perform with those shaky hands and shivers run through his spine.

Belling likes to tell stories, especially his own about coming to be a pirate, but just to be sure, he starts off with where he was born and how he was raised.

Aziraphale spends the afternoon assisting him and trying to bring order to the old man’s bag and shelves. He’s almost entirely sure that every second dusty phial he holds has gone sour. Some liquids don’t even move as he shakes them, some others ooze a really strange smell.

Belling keeps talking about how he was just a young lad with a fresh degree in his pocket when he decided to sail across the ocean and try his luck in New York. The ship he was voyaging on got attacked by pirates-

No, this is not how ginseng smells.

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose and pushes the cork back with his hand.

“Are you sure you earned that degree?” Aziraphale mutters to himself.

“What did ya say?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Aziraphale pinches a bullet extractor between his fingers. It’s full of dried blood. He throws it back into the medical bag and decides to never get close to the amputation knife at any costs.

He gives up somewhere around the jar of leeches. He sits on the wooden stair step next to Belling and tries to focus on the old man’s husky voice rather than the savage ways humans created for themselves to cure each other.

Truth be told, a pirate ship doesn’t seem to be a worse place to lose a leg than any other medical offices. It’s just Aziraphale who’s too squirmy to deal with it.

 

⚓

 

Aziraphale feels like he’s been dozing off. When he blinks up at the sky, the sun’s already wandered down the horizon, tainting the bottom of the clouds pink and flaming orange. The beams that caress his face aren’t as hot as they were before, and the salty wind has cooled down too.

Belling is still talking.

Aziraphale represses a yawn and tries to stretch discreetly. A wide shadow covers the light, shadowing over Aziraphale. He looks up and faces Crowley’s quartermaster whose name slips his mind.

“Get up. You were assigned to take stock with me in the larder. Captain’s orders.”

Aziraphale is more than happy to jump up and be anywhere but here. He turns back to Belling, giving him his most polite smile and bow:

“Thank you for entertaining me with your truly unusual stories, Doctor. I can’t wait to hear the rest later.” And with that, he’s already scuttling towards the trapdoor.

The narrow, creaking stairs don’t feel safe, necessarily. Aziraphale sinks under the main deck carefully, his eyes trying to adjust to the dim lights. There’s dust in the humid air, and the sour smell of gunpowder and sweat.

Aziraphale reaches the floor and looks up; the quartermaster follows in his footsteps, but he’s still at the top of the ladder.

“Straight ahead,” he tells him. “There’s a torch on your left.”

Aziraphale feels it out blindly, and quickly snaps his fingers to light it. Yellow light flows through the space.

The steerage is a narrow, curved corridor. It gives Aziraphale the sense of being inside the belly of a huge beast as he walks deeper and keeps hearing something dripping and moving in the dark. In one corner he sees hammocks and barrels, in the other, a couple of cells. He assumes that’s where the dripping comes from.

“On your right.” He hears the quartermaster’s voice again, closer to him this time.

Aziraphale stops in his tracks and reaches for the closest doorknob on his right. The door opens easily - he sticks his head in, raising the torch higher -

It’s snatched from his hand. The light goes out.

He’s shoved inside the room, rough.

The door slams.

The lock turns.

Aziraphale turns too, completely thrown off as he’s grabbed by the collar pushed back to the wall. He hits his head, seeing stars. Some sacks lump down to the floor as the shelves shake under Aziraphale’s impact.

“ _Excuse me_ -” he spits, outraged.

“Shut your bloody mouth,” the quartermaster growls. His knuckles are pushing on Aziraphale’s air pipe warningly. “What’s your deal with the Captain? Who sent you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t under-”

The quartermaster shakes him again, pressing closer. Aziraphale’s features harden as he chokes up.

“Who sent you here?! To the point, whore!”

“Listen, young man-”

The door’s kicked down, the lock breaks and hits the floor clattering. They both jump, the quartermaster’s hands slip down as he lets Aziraphale’s throat go.

The shadow of a tall, lanky figure leans into the doorframe, one leg popped up. He pushes himself away and steps into the room, some light casts on him finally.

“Gentlemen,” Crowley says. His fingers curl around his pistol. With his other hand, he takes his spectacles off, revealing his eyes. His voice is merely a whisper. “Care to explain, Moore?”

The quartermaster’s chest is heaving. His eyes grow wide as he looks into Crowley’s, his hands curl into fists. He glances at Aziraphale, who gives him a blank look, then back to Crowley. Those narrow eyes are burning with hellfire.

“I said,” Crowley steps closer, snarling, “explain.”

“We… I was. I-”

Crowley mocks his stuttering. The quartermaster turns visibly pale.

“Into the cell. Go.” When Moore doesn’t move, Crowley draws his pistol out.

“Crowley.”

“You stay here. Moore, _go_. And thank your fucking creator that I don’t skin you alive.”

Moore stumbles to set off, but obeys. When Crowley pushes the barrel into his back, his breath hitches.

Aziraphale watches them getting devoured by the dark, and takes a deep breath to collect himself. He snaps his fingers again; he doesn’t need a source for the warm light that fills the room.

Crowley’s clanking steps are approaching quickly. He grabs the doorframe to push himself into the larder, his tousled hair falling into his face. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.

Aziraphale’s struggling with a smile.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley makes a face.

“Ugh, don’t.” He swallows hard and gestures at Aziraphale. He understands.

“I’m fine.”

Crowley nods. He wets his lips, and clears his throat.

“Come on, then. It’s getting dark. Outside, I mean. It’s always dark here. It’s really annoying.” And with that, he turns with a dramatic flap of his coat and disappears again.

Aziraphale lets his smile grow wide, unnoticed. He adjusts his clothes around his neck and follows Crowley blindly.

  
⚓

 

They sneak past the hammocks, loud snoring coming from their direction. Others descend on the ladder, ready to join their fellows. Crowley guides Aziraphale further away from the crew, into the shadows, where they wait until everyone settles. Aziraphale doesn’t ask why Crowley doesn’t want to be seen; he assumes it’s because it’s better for all of them if tonight’s little adventure is kept a secret.

Crowley climbs the ladder, deft and soundless. Aziraphale tries to do the same, but the steps still creek softly under him wherever he puts his feet.

As they pop up the trapdoor, the first mouthful of cool air in their throats feels like salvation. Crowley climbs out first, looking around to see if anyone is close. He waves Aziraphale to surface and wrestles a bit whether or not he should help him. He decides not to.

Aziraphale keeps low and laces his fingers through the bars of the trapdoor to put it down quietly. When he’s done, he straightens and dusts his hands.

They walk up the stairs that lead to the forecastle deck in complete silence. Crowley pops up on the rails where the bowsprit starts from, the jibsail fluttering behind him.

“Hop on,” he says, patting the rail.

Aziraphale grabs the rope of the sail for balance and settles next to Crowley. They turn towards the ocean, legs dangling down.

The brigantine is sliding on the dark waves, steady and sleek. The sky is peppered with blinking stars and a glowing crescent moon. Aziraphale keeps holding onto the ropes just in case, feeling a little wobbly still.

“What happens to Moore?”

Crowley sniffs and shrugs.

“I promised to keelhaul.”

“You’re actually going to do that?”

“Of course not,” Crowley snorts. “Traditional mauling has never been my style. I just wanted to keep them in place.”

Crowley tries to hide behind a neutral tone, but inside, he’s shaken by Moore’s behavior. It’s a really wretched sign that someone from his crew - the quartermaster, of all - decided to act against orders and tried to intimidate the only person he’s not supposed to. Something bitter settles into Crowley’s stomach like he’d swallowed acid.

It feels like a storm is coming his way with twirling clouds and rumbling seas and the promise of death and destruction, and Crowley’s unsure if he’ll be ready to fight back.

“Hey, watch his,” he says then, sliding off the rail a little bit.

Aziraphale’s frantic.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax.” Crowley knocks on the wood above the rail with his heel, and a secret box opens. Aziraphale doesn’t dare to lean ahead like Crowley does to see what he’s doing; a couple seconds of fumbling and grunting later Crowley straightens, a bottle between his fingers and his tongue between his teeth. “Eh?”

Aziraphale knots his brows.

“You almost broke yourself for that?”

“It’s the good stuff, angel, not just watered rum. It’s brisk champagne.”

“How many times did you drink that whole bottle?”

“Do you want to taste or just judge?”

Aziraphale presses his lips together.

“I don’t think it’s very wise to drink that while balancing on a narrow handrail above the ocean.”

“Where’s that drunk bastard from Rome who forgot how to count?”

“Buried deep under seven layers of mortal fear. Of paperwork.” Aziraphale adds quickly when Crowley wants to cut in.

“Whatever,” Crowley mumbles and bends down again to put his precious bottle back into the secret box. “You’ll drink this with me one night.”

 _I’m sure about it_ , Aziraphale thinks. _But this is not the right night. So hold onto that a little longer, please._

Before Crowley could come back from under, Aziraphale tightens his grasp on the rope and tilts his head back to watch the stars.

He’s breathing in sync with the wind, the sighs of the ship. He tries not to think about falling; the stars are merging into one another as he sails under them, the spraying water damps his hair and his face.

He closes his eyes, wrapping himself in darkness.

“Crowley, do you remember when the skies were empty?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Crowley’s voice is weak and hoarse. “It was fucking miserable.”

Aziraphale swallows, hard. He just realises what he’d said.

“I suppose it was.”

After a breath of silence, Crowley asks:

“Knew the fellow?”

“Pardon?”

“Who hung the stars. You knew them?”

“Oh. No. I’m afraid not.”

Crowley peers at him, hiding behind his spectacles. Aziraphale’s eyes are still closed, his skin is shining in the dark with tiny drops of sea haze. As the wind combs through his hair, his lips part slightly.

“Huh.”

They spend the rest of the night in silence, being carried and cradled by the ocean.

  
⚓  


“Get ready.”

Crowley’s clings to the handrail of the cuddy. He stares west, his features hard and cold like a statue. Further away on the horizon slithers a grey line and above it, dark clouds grumble and twirl.

“Vincent, how are things?”

The carpenter comes rushing up the stairs, jumping on them two by two. He’s gasping for air, his lungs whistle.

“Bad. Very bad,” he breathes.

“But we suffered almost no damage against the _Queen Anne’s Grace_.” Crowley’s knuckles whiten.

“It’s not that, it’s… beetles… fucking beetles. They’ve been eating the ship alive. I just noticed when we worked on the top mast… It’s gonna break. If the wind rises, it’s gonna break like nothing. We’ll slow down and we’ll lose our only chance to escape it, whenever we want to turn. And we’re headed straight at it…” He points ahead. “Right to the centre. There’s no escape.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit!” Crowley slaps on the rail with both hands.

He needs to think, and he needs to think fast. He can’t possibly miracle them away, he can’t just save all these people and go unnoticed like that. But if he does nothing…

Because of the wood-beetles, their biggest advantage is gone. They’ll lose the speed and maneuverability of the brigantine, and the raging storm will toss and turn them like a leaf.

Vincent is right. They’ll be at the eye of the storm, broken and vulnerable. And he can’t do shit about it.

Crowley looks at the horizon again. They don’t have much time. Storms at sea form in seconds and destroy in less. There’s no way they can fight it all…

 _Aziraphale_.

Crowley’s knees buckle. He trips and almost falls as he hurries down the stairs, his coat fluttering, leaving a dumfolded Vincent and the navigator behind.

  
⚓

Aziraphale’s tidying up Crowley’s cabin.

They’d parted when the sun rose, and decided it would be better if Aziraphale stayed at the Captain’s quarters after the incident with Moore. Belling doesn’t need assistance now, much to the delight of Aziraphale who feels relieved he doesn’t have to sit through some more stories.

Crowley’s place is very empty. It’s not a surprise, really; neither of them need many belongings, and Crowley surrounds himself with the bare necessities of passing as a mortal captain. The shelves have a couple of books on them, and Aziraphale gathers his naval accessories up there too so it’s not as hollow and sad to look at.

Aziraphale holds up a heavy backstaff to find a place for it, when a bright light swallows up the whole cabin. Aziraphale nearly drops the instrument but manages to hug it with both arms instead.

As he turns around, carefully, he’s met with a familiar face.

The last one he wanted to see again.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel greets him, throwing his arms to the side. “Enjoying the journey?”

Aziraphale drops the backstaff on the desk, fingers shaking slightly. He laces them behind his back to hide it, and tries to return Gabriel’s cold smile that never reaches his eyes.

“Yes! Yes. It’s absolutely splendid,” he says, raising his shoulders. “What a lovely surprise. Is there… a change in the plan, mayhaps?”

Gabriel’s laugh is hollow as he makes a mocking grimace to him.

“Oh, no. No, no no no. Your instructions are still clear as day. No, I am here on a different occasion.”

Without following that up with anything, Gabriel adjusts his dove collars and looks around the quarters. His grimace turns disgusted as his eyes follow the twinkling dust stars that are dancing in the light and the smoky walls around them.

“This place reeks. Couldn’t you find a better ship to voyage on?”

“I did, but, uh. Things went sideways. But I was thinking that coming to port on a pirate ship would be more… appropriate. Nothing suspicious. Who would be looking for an angel on a pirate ship? That would be ludicrous.”

Gabriel’s eyes flare up before he slides his polite mask back on. His tone tames down as well.

“You’ve always had peculiar ideas. I always tell the others-” Gabriel points up-“that Earth made you special. Must be how it messed with your wires.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Despite Gabriel’s tone, this is hardly a compliment. He watches Gabriel walk closer to him, and fights with the urge to take some steps back until his head hits the shelves.

“I’ve been watching you very closely for a while, Aziraphale. Do you know what I saw?”

“Something satisfying, I hope?”

Gabriel hums. Aziraphale holds his breath. And then-

“Indeed it was,” Gabriel chimes. “But we really, really need you to succeed with this one. If you do a perfect job now, that might just mean that you’ll have some really exciting changes in your life. Very soon, I should add.”

“What changes?”

“Oh, I can’t say.” Gabriel waves, yet looks around and leans closer to whisper: “I heard some rumors about you getting a promotion. Imagine that!” Gabriel laughs again. “A promotion, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale breathes a little _hah_ , and keeps smiling. The corners of his mouth are starting to ache. Gabriel pats him on the shoulder, rougher than necessary, and squeezes it after.

The familiar clanking steps intone outside the quarters. Aziraphale’s heart beats rapidly, his ears are ringing. He glances at the door, then back at Gabriel. He’s still grinning, his vessel shaking and fading.

Gabriel’s soft voice seems to be coming from everywhere, choking him:

“Make us proud, Aziraphale.”

And with another flash, he disappears. Aziraphale nearly collapses now that Gabriel’s hand let him go.

The cabin’s door immediately bursts open and Crowley rushes in, his hair fluttering around his face.

“Aziraphale!” he shouts as he slams his hands down the table that stands between them. His breath is hitching and he growls miserably. “Aziraphale, I need-” Crowley looks up at his face. He keeps wheezing, but he never continues what he initially wanted to say. “What on Earth happened to you?”

Cold sweat drips down Aziraphale’s temples.

“Nothing? Why would you say that. I’m doing great. Absolutely fine.”

Despite what he’s saying and how he’s managing to say those chipper words, Aziraphale seems distressed; expression unreadable, but the way he’s fidgeting with his fingers in front of him tells Crowley everything.

“Stop lying, you’re an angel.”

Aziraphale pouts a bit, offended. He’s quick to change the subject back.

“What do you need?”

“What?”

“You said you needed something.”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Let’s trade. I’ll do your mission. Tell me everything.”

Aziraphale snaps immediately, loud and distraught:

“No!”

“Wh-what? Why? What? You were basically begging me to do it before and now that I actually offer, you just- you- _no?_ ”

“I never _begged_.” Aziraphale says, barely opening his mouth. “Especially not to a _demon_.”

Crowley stares at him like Aziraphale hit him in the chest. He suffers to find the right words before breaking out:

“What the hell got into you? You don’t even know what I’ll ask in return, right? It’s not even temptation, I just need you to help these guys survive the storm that’s gonna reach and wreck us in any minute! Is that such a huge favor to ask of an angel? The angel that followed me on a ship that’s called _Grace_? Really?”

There’s hollow silence. Aziraphale tilts his head slightly, knitting his brows. He’s staring at Crowley in disbelief, his eyes following his tense features as Crowley looks back at him like he’s his only savior. Aziraphale comes round the desk, fingers sliding on the top. He stops when they get too close to Crowley’s hands, still nailed there.

“You want to make sure your crew survives the storm?” Aziraphale asks softly.

Crowley straightens. He draws his hands back reluctantly.

“Well, yeah. I can’t save them, myself, obviously. Wouldn’t look great on my record.”

Aziraphale’s throat tenses, but there’s nothing to swallow. Every word he speaks slowly burns his mouth like fire. He gives his heart into it, making sure Crowley hears them as they truly are - apologies.

“I can’t, Crowley. And I’m not letting you take my mission.”

Crowley whimpers desperately and opens his mouth to object again-

The sky rumbles loudly, like an ancient God awakening with a whistling scream. The whole cabin is lit up for a second, then it gets dark again, darker than before as black clouds crawl in front of the tiny, round windows. Waves come crashing in, and Crowley and Aziraphale need to cling to the heavy mahogany desk for momentary balance as the brigantine tilts to the side violently. They both drop on their knees under the desk, nails sinking into the tabletop.

People start screaming above them, the rain’s pouring like a waterfall, devouring their voices.

Their eyes meet.

“You have to go,” Aziraphale says, pointing his chin towards the door. “They need you.”

“No, angel,” Crowley croaks, mouth twitching. “They need _you_.”

“Crowley-”

And with that, Crowley shakes his head and scrambles to his feet. Aziraphale watches him balance across the floor skillfully, dashing out the door that slams close and open again as the brigantine is swaying from side to side.

Thunder claps. The whole ship’s shaken by it, Aziraphale feels the rumble in his bones. He hears Crowley’s voice next, his throaty screams outroar the furious storm. He sounds frantic and desperate.

It strikes right into his chest, piercing into his heart like a dagger.

Aziraphale staggers to his feet too, and flounders towards the door as quickly as he can.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hnnnnnnnng I wanted to post this days ago but life happened and shit;;;
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING i appreciate you all so much ♡
> 
> // find me on tumblr as [[quee--ra]](http://quee--ra.tumblr.com/)  
> // forever thankful for my lovely beta [[esoterrible]](http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> THE SERIES WAS SO GOOD I HAD TO TRANSLATE AND FULLY REWRITE THIS THING FROM 2014
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> // find me on tumblr as [[quee--ra]](http://quee--ra.tumblr.com/)  
> // forever thankful for my lovely beta [[esoterrible]](http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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